Another Debate With Mister Montague
I was looking over my yard, waiting for Main Line landscaping to show up and start trimming my hedges, eager with anticipation. Thoughts of horticultural designs and neatly trimmed bushes danced in my head like sugarplums and Santa Clause through the mind of an autistic 10-year-old on Christmas Eve. As I wait, who shows up and leans on my fence but my son-of-a-dog neighbor, Montague. That rotten old sod smiles at me, has the nerve to SMILE at me, as he hoarsely coughs out the most insincere “Afternoon, neighbor!” I’ve heard escape a human throat since the last time this monkey in a sweater talked to me. I grit my teeth behind closed lips and hesitantly lift an arm to wave at him. It’s the arm with the trimming hedges firmly in my grasp. All I want is for him to bugger off so that I can get to some of the easier tasks to keep the landscaper from having to do it. But that old coot opens his damnable mouth again, and out whistles, “Some lovely bluegrass you’re growing!” It’s enraging, and the bile rises up in my throat. I’ve planted St. Augustine in my yard for the warm season, and he has the gall to pretend he knows enough to point out the difference. I swallow hard and walk closer, the anger settling back down in my stomach. “Watch your hands,” I say a bit quieter than I need to, and get to work filling the time. I hate that old man.
